


sons of god

by besselfcn



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Blessed Are The Peacemakers, M/M, rdr kink meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-26 14:59:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19008148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/besselfcn/pseuds/besselfcn
Summary: “O’Driscolls really got the better of you this time, huh, Morgan?”





	sons of god

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [RDR kink meme](https://jamaillith.dreamwidth.org/332167.html?thread=530055#cmt530055)and now cross-posted here. Be warned!! The original prompt was **Micah/Arthur non-con** and that's what this is. Come get your yums and yucks here.

“O’Driscolls really got the better of you this time, huh, Morgan?”  
  
Arthur forces his leaden eyelids to rise a little--enough to see Micah leaned against the tentpole, staring at him in his sickbed. The light outside is fire orange; either just barely morning or just barely night. He’s been worthless at tracking time, lately.   
  
“Whaddya want, Micah?” Arthur grumbles. It comes out slurred through his dried-out tongue and cracked-open lips.   
  
“Nothing,” Micah shrugs. He walks towards Arthur one slow and staggering step at a time. “Just came to check up on our revered second-in-command.”  
  
His hand reaches out--fingertips brush the side of Arthur’s ribs, where they’re still all bruised and sensitive, and Arthur tries to swat his hand away but his arms feel too heavy and Micah just laughs.   
  
“Micah,” Arthur says, trying to make it a warning, but it comes out like a plea.   
  
“Been hearing a lot of rumors about your little vacation,” Micah says. His fingers press harder; Arthur wheezes and tries to shove at him again. “About what happened with Colm. Dutch is  _raving_  mad about it.” His hands, down towards Arthur’s stomach. “Guess he don’t like other people playing with his favorite toys.”  
  
Arthur’s blood feels like ice; it drains from the tips of his fingers, from his head, settles in a dark black mass at the center of his stomach, right above where Micah’s palm is splayed. Who knows?  _How_  do they know? Did he come back to camp looking that obvious? Did he tell them, during one of the dark and hazy nights he can barely remember waking from?   
  
“Get out,” Arthur growls. “You’ve made your point, get out.”  
  
Micah stops--and then he laughs. This demented, bordering on hysterical laugh, wheezing out under his breath.   
  
“I didn’t come here just to tease you, Morgan,” Micah says. “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”  
  
Arthur’s heart skips.  
  
He opens his mouth to yell for Dutch and at the same instant feels the breath choked out of his throat, a hand closed around it and the words held back with them, that horrible laughter of Micah’s low in his ear and his breath on his neck and a quiet, rattly, “Nice try, pretty boy,” that feels like a knife in his spine. He pries at Micah’s grip with weak fingers, hands trembling, and Micah grabs something off the table beside the bed--Arthur's bandana, he thinks--and shoves it deep into Arthur’s throat until he can’t work his mouth to spit it out.   
  
“There you go,” Micah growls, and he flips Arthur onto his stomach with too much effort, Arthur’s shoulder and ribs screaming in the process. He gathers Arthur’s wrists in one hand, almost effortless. “Finally shut the fuck up for once.”  
  
_Get the fuck off me,_  Arthur thinks, tries to say, but it comes out as a growl and a wet, gurgled wheeze.   
  
“Don’t worry, Morgan, it’ll be done with soon,” Micah says, and Arthur can hear the wet sounds of Micah stroking himself with something slick and has enough time to think  _at least he’s sensible enough to do that_  before Micah shoves into him with sheer force.  
  
The too-familiar pain spreads through him from his gut up to his ribs, intensifying with every inch that Micah gives. He bottoms out, and Arthur can just hear  _Jesus fuck, you’re tight as a virgin_  through the fog that’s settling over his mind--the desire to be not here, to be somewhere else in his mind while this happens to his body, tongue choking on cotton and hands digging into his hips.  
  
(This is nothing like Dutch--Dutch is rough, and he’s angry, sometimes, but he doesn’t take without asking, he doesn’t demand this of Arthur, Arthur gives this, because he wants to. And it’s not even like Colm--Colm was--Colm hurt, Colm made him feel ruined in a way he didn’t know he could, but Colm let him  _fight_. Colm laughed when Arthur kicked at him and told him to scream and Arthur did and that, at least, felt little different than a firefight. This is something else.)  
  
“Shit, Morgan,” Micah groans, like he’s enjoying himself, and the way Arthur’s being jostled up and down the cot suggests he just might be, and then Micah says, “Come on there, boy, take it,” all easy, falls right off his lips, and Arthur feels suddenly, deeply sick with the knowledge, down to his bones, that Micah has done this before.   
  
He tries to stand--tries to punch Micah, really, sock him right in the face and break his fucking jaw--but his arms won’t work and Micah presses him down with one hand at the top of his spine, whispers, “Almost, almost, slow down there,” and he groans and comes buried inside Arthur.   
  
Arthur shakes, in the aftermath. He doesn’t know why; it just starts at his shoulders and continues down his back, his chest, all the way into his thighs until he’s shivering like he was left out in the snow.   
  
“Well,” Micah says, and he hops off the cot, looking pleased. “I’m still not sure what they all see in you, but I appreciate a good roll in the hay. Oh--and let me take that, for you.”  
  
He reaches up and pulls the bandana from Arthur’s mouth. It’s sopping wet with spit, and the moment it’s free Arthur coughs and spits out, “Fuck you--sociopathic piece of trash--”  
  
Micah hits him--once in the temple, once in his broken ribs. He sees stars; his vision goes nearly black.   
  
“Aw, Morgan,” Micah says, kneeling down to Arthur’s eye level as Arthur struggles to breathe. “That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever called me.”  
  
He leaves, and Arthur coughs and tastes blood. 


End file.
